


Roommates: In the Beginning

by Teegar



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, Starfleet Academy, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 04:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20002159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teegar/pseuds/Teegar
Summary: Cadet Pavel Chekov meets his very eccentric Star Fleet Academy roommate





	Roommates: In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I planned to start posting another novel today. It's still being proofread, though. So, given the positive response we had to "Here Be Dragons" last week, Mylochka has once more stepped up and offered another one of her stories with Chekov and Noel DelMonde. She's also generously giving me co-author credit here even though I only suggested some plot points and helped with a few joke lines here and there. (Not to be greedy, but I'm also hoping she will post some of the artwork that goes with this story.) 
> 
> As with last week, here are some things to bear in mind as you read:
> 
> ONE OF THE CHARACTERS IN THIS STORY SWEARS A LOT.
> 
> And when I say "a lot" I mean as in every other word. Copiously. Continually. Throughout the whole story. Gratuitously. It's just an element of the way he talks.  
> This isn't usual for ST:TOS... or for one of my stories, for that matter.  
> And if it's going to be a problem, hit the back button and no hard feelings, okay?
> 
> Second, this isn't a standard ST: TOS story. It was written as part of a fanfic series called The Valjiir Continuum that's been going on since the late 1970's. This series features several telepathic characters and introduced an empathic race much like the Betazoids years before the premier of ST:TNG.
> 
> Okay, thus forearmed, I hope you enjoy this story of how Chekov and Del met and began their very unlikely friendship... if you want to call it that...

# Roommates: In the Beginning

By Mylochka and Teegar

Noel DelMonde was tired and irritated.  
  
Of course, this was nothing new. In the two and a half months he'd been at Star Fleet Academy, he spent around 90% of his time tired and or irritated – usually both. Were the other 10% of the time not filled with the sublime bliss of working in the finest design labs and most up-to-date engineering facilities in this half of the galaxy, he would have walked out of this brass-plated masochists' convention long ago.  
  
Plebes weren't allowed to lock the doors to their quarters. Del walked in without bothering to buzz the chime. The cadet who was about to become his new roommate immediately stood up and snapped to attention.  
  
Instead of thinking "Oh, shit" or "Not fucking again" like a normal person would, this little toy solider immediately started inventorying through the list of bullshit upperclassmen just loved to bust into your room and make you say or do to make sure he was ready to say or do any of it with appropriate gusto. He was a short, baby-faced fellow with big, brown puppy-dog eyes and huge ears.  
  
If Del had been less exhausted, he would have made the kid do some push-ups just for the hell of it. As it was, he settled for saying, "As you were, Cadet."  
  
As his new roommate screwed up his little teddy bear face and tried to figure out from the host of obvious clues who this newcomer into his living space was, Del noticed that there was something weird about the was the little fellow's brain. Listening to him think was like listening to a broadcast over a communicator where the gain was malfunctioning. He was audible but too quiet, very low signal strength.  
  
"I’m your new roommate," Del announced, impatiently deciding that it was going to take the little guy the rest of the night to figure that out.  
  
"Ah, yes," the cadet said with an unbelievably thick accent. He put out his hand. "You must be Noel DelMonde. I am Pavel Chekov."  
  
Del, who thought touching strangers was a barbaric custom, used having armloads of dufflebag and guitar as an excuse not to shake hands. "Right," he said, heading wearily for the beds.  
  
"The bottom bunk is…" Chekov began as Del lay down on it.  
  
"Was," the Cajun corrected, stretching out.  
  
Instead of letting him slip into a few moment of precious slumber like anyone with an ounce of civility would have, the little fellow stomped over and folded his arms.  
  
"Our living situation will be more comfortable if we get along," he said in his comic opera excuse for an accent.  
  
"Whatever." Del agreed; already well along the road to unconsciousness.  
  
"Perhaps we should establish some ground rules…" the Russian began with stubborn lack of consideration.  
  
The Cajun opened one eye. "Do you outrank me?"  
  
Chekov made an annoyed sounding noise, "No, of course not, but…."  
  
"Do you think you my mama?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then shut the fuck up," Del concluded – and very politely under the circumstances he thought – before turning his face to the wall and going promptly to sleep.  
  
_And there was evening and there was morning and there was the first day._

  


* * *

  
"What the hell you doin'?"  
  
"This is mine," Chekov announced, taking a stat board from Del's desk.  
  
"You best put that down," the Cajun warned.  
  
"Get your own," the Russian returned. "Don't take my things."  
  
Delmonde's mouth fell open in enraged surprise as his roommate pressed the control that would clear the board.   
  
"Why you ignorant motherfucker," he managed after a moment. He swiftly rose and snatched the device from the Russian's hands. "You best be hoping that wasn't something important enough for me to have to beat your ass for deleting, boy."   
  
Undaunted, his roommate reached for the board again. "As I said, it is mine."  
  
Del smacked the Russian's hand away hard. "You need t'back the fuck up before I rip you a new one, ya snotty lil’ bastard," he growled.  
  
His roommate didn't move. "Oh, so you wish to fight about it?"  
  
"Oh, it's not going to be a fight," Del warned. "I'm just going to smack the shit out of you and call it a day."  
  
The Russian shrugged diffidently. "You can try," he replied, his eyes narrowing.  
  
Del blinked in surprise. When he was this angry, most people were frightened enough by him that he rarely had to resort to actual violence. "You may not have noticed this, ya dumb fuck, but you're only about three feet tall. I can flick my pinkie and knock your ass into next week."  
  
Chekov squared his shoulders stubbornly. "We will see."  
  
Reading him, Del found that the Russian's stubbornness and big mouth had gotten him into any number of fights. He was surprised to find that his very proper roommate even seemed to have a taste for brawling. "You can't beat me, you stupid lil’ jackass," the Cajun explained.  
  
"Perhaps," the Russian replied grimly. "But I can hurt you."  
  
Del could read him weighing his choices of an entire repertoire of nasty, painful blows, and beginning to decide that the Cajun was probably vain enough for a black eye to be the most satisfyingly suitable punishment.  
  
"Gonna go for the cheap shots, _non_?" Del put his hands on his hips. "Oh, that's real nice… I shoulda figured you'd fight like a damn girl."  
  
The smaller man shrugged. "Girls can be very effective fighters."  
  
Del thought he caught the flash of a memory. "You been beat up by a girl, ain't you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Despite his roommate's outward puzzlement, Del could see the memory becoming more defined. "A big ol' girl," he reported. "With blonde hair in pigtails…."  
  
"This is ridiculous," the Russian protested, although he was visibly dismayed. "Stop guessing foolish things."  
  
"Her name was…" Del prompted and then smiled as the answer popped into his opponent's mind. "Ludmilla Something-Russian-anova…."  
  
"Who told you this?" Chekov demanded angrily.  
  
"You did, ya dumb fuck." Del grinned and flicked him on the forehead with his middle finger. "I a telepath."  
  
"You are a human," his roommate argued back. "There is no reliably reproducible and statistically significant data to support the hypothesis that practical telepathy can exist in human beings."  
  
"But there is statistically significant evidence that you a dumbfuck who had his ass beat by a girl," Del replied.  
  
"This is nonsense," the Russian scoffed. "Someone must have told you to say that…"  
  
The memory was as clear as a photograph inside his roommate's head. "Was she really that big?" Del wondered aloud. "Or were you just that little?"  
  
"She was two levels ahead of …" Chekov clamped his teeth over the admission a moment too late. "Who told you to say this?"  
  
"Who do I know that you know?" Del countered. "She knocked you down, took your sandwich, and then…" A big grin broke over the Cajun's face. "And then she kissed you until you started to cry. Oh, my Lord, this is rich. This is just too rich. This is just too funny."  
  
The Russian didn't seem amused. "If no one told you, you must have read it somewhere…" he fumed.  
  
"Who the fuck is gonna write something like that down?" Del was now laughing so hard he had to sit down. "Is that what passes for news where you're from? Dateline: Moscow. Skinny lil’ boy loses both his lunch and his heart to…."  
  
"Stop it, now!" Chekov burst out. "Give me back my board immediately or suffer the consequences!"  
  
"Here, take it," the Cajun said, wiping his eyes, "I not have the heart to beat up a man who done already been the victim of Big Ludmilla, the Kissing Bandit of Kiev…"  
  
_And there was evening and there was morning and there was a second day._

  


* * *

  
  
When he decided to take the entrance exam for Star Fleet Academy, Noel DelMonde had no idea that he was voluntarily running straight into the waiting arms of an army of headshrinkers.  
  
As he walked through the Psi Lab, they all called out to greet him, "Hi, Del!" "How's it going?" "Del, good to see you!" in the same sort of happy, friendly, possessive way a person would call out to their favorite hound dog when it wandered back up to the house after chasing a rabbit.  
  
Del sighed to himself. These skull-fuckers did think they owned him… And since they were in control of his supply of sapphire, their belief was uncomfortably close to reality. He'd tried to hide the full extent of his abilities from them, but that was made terribly complicated by the fact that A) he didn't know the full extent of his abilities, (having only recently come to think of them as abilities) and B) they had more time on their hands than he did.  
  
They'd just about worn him down with their infernal, incessant testing – Test upon test, day after day, each one more complicated the last, sometimes even hiding tests inside other tests. As soon as Del got back to getting a normal amount of sleep, he planned to show these brain-humpers who was boss… but that didn't seem to be likely to happen any time soon. For now, he consoled himself with the thought that he was lulling them into a false sense of security by letting them believe they'd trained him to sit up and bark any time they dangled a sparkling blue treat in front of his nose.  
  
He pressed the buzzer to the office door of the head of the department.  
  
"Come!" the person inside called.  
  
Under normal circumstances, such an exchange would have been more than sufficient to establish that the person in the office was aware of Del's impending entrance into that room. The cadet steeled himself not to groan or make a face as he stepped inside and came to attention.  
  
"Dr. Braily, sir," he said, trying to achieve a tone that didn't suggest that he'd rather have nails poked through his eyes. "You sent for me, sir?"  
  
"Oh, hello, Del," the professor replied, looking up from his computer as if surprised and pleased to find him there. "Sit down."  
  
Braily was far too concerned about the fact that Del had briefly hovered on the edge of being in danger of being kicked out of the Academy for a couple very minor instances of what they called "insubordination" here. The professor was much more concerned about this than Del himself was. Ever since the incidents, the good doctor had been on a mission to reform him. In reality what this boiled down to was that if Del could remember to sprinkle a few "sirs" into the beginning and end of the conversation, the two of them could talk like old friends. If he forgot, or refused to, or did so with bad grace, that would unfailingly trigger the launch of a twenty minute lecture on military decorum complete with some very unwelcome speculation on how reducing the amount of sapphire he was currently allowed might improve his "focus' – whatever the hell that was supposed to be.  
  
"So, you have a new roommate?" the doctor asked, in a fine example of one of those questions they liked to trot out to remind him that they had an eye on and usually a hand in even the most mundane details of his life here.  
  
"Yes, sir." Del replied as if the fact weren't completely well-fucking-known to both of them.  
  
"How do you like him?"  
  
The cadet shrugged. "I don't."  
  
This seemed to surprise the doctor. "Why not?"  
  
"He a snotty little prick," Del replied without rancor.  
  
Braily frowned at him disapprovingly.  
  
Del couldn't read the doctor. Braily said he wasn't telepathic, but he had the Vulcan mind tricks that they were trying to teach Del down cold. For as long as he could remember, the cadet had wished he could be spared the misery of continually being bombarded with other's thoughts. However when he'd finally met people who could control that flow, he found it was often inconvenient and downright annoying.  
  
Del finally puzzled out that he was supposed to say, "Begging your pardon, sir" which was apparently what military men said after they cussed.  
  
"I thought you might like him."  
  
Although Braily could conceal his thoughts, he couldn't conceal his emotions. Right now, the professor's puzzled surprise was as obvious as a big question mark hanging over his head.  
  
Del shook his head. "Not really."  
  
"Actually," the doctor corrected himself. "What I meant to say was that I thought he would be easy for you to be around."  
  
The headshrinkers put a lot of value on being very clear about even the most trivial and unimportant things they said. "Not especially."  
  
Braily tapped his thin lips pensively with a stylus. "Can you read his thoughts?"  
  
Del shrugged. "Such as they are."  
  
"Exactly what do you mean by that?" the doctor asked, jumping on the statement as eagerly as a hungry frog on a junebug.  
  
"I dunno," the cadet replied irritably. "He just kinda empty-headed."  
  
"Funny that you should describe him that way." Where a normal person would have the decency to explain what they meant, Braily just went on. "So you find Pavel Chekov to be unintelligent?"  
  
"I dunno," Del repeated. "He don't seem to think much."  
  
"Interesting," the professor commented, then gestured with his stylus. "Go on."  
  
Del hadn't intended to say anything else. "He sorta like a dog," he tried to clarify.  
  
"A dog? Hmmm." The professor tilted his head to one side. "And what does that mean to you?"  
  
Braily could always knock the shit out of a good metaphor without half trying.   
  
"A dog – most dogs – not sit around and worry much about life and all. Mostly they just rest for when they got to move fast."  
  
"So it seems to you that Cadet Chekov doesn't think a great deal? He rests?"  
  
"Seem like," Del confirmed rapidly losing patience with whatever game this was.  
  
"What about his emotions?"  
  
"What about 'em?" the cadet repeated uncaringly.  
  
"Can you sense those?"  
  
"He not have none."  
  
Braily's bushy eyebrows rose to their limits. "No emotions?"  
  
"No." Del wondered why this wasn't obvious to an accomplished cerebellum-sucker like the good doctor.  
  
"None at all?"  
  
"Yeah, he worse than a Vulcan pretends to be."  
  
"Interesting." Braily seemed amused.  
  
"What interesting about that?" Del asked, narrowing his eyes.  
  
"I find Pavel Chekov to be an exceptionally emotional person, given to frequent, uncontrollable affective displays."  
  
"You mean how he puff out his lil' chipmunk cheeks and stomp his lil' feet and all?"  
  
The doctor nodded genially. "That sort of thing."  
  
"Oh, that just a show he put on," Del dismissed. "He not feel it."  
  
"So it seems to you that he's faking emotion?"  
  
"He do a lil' song and dance, but stays as calm as mud."  
  
Braily pressed his index fingers together thoughtfully. "Why do you think he would do that?"  
  
The cadet shrugged. "To get what he want, _non_?"  
  
"So you find him to be unintelligent and deceptive?"  
  
Del frowned at him suspiciously. "He a robot or something?"  
  
"Does he seem like a robot to you?" The feeling of amusement from Braily became even stronger.  
  
"No," the cadet snapped. "that why I asking."  
  
"Actually Cadet Chekov is a psi null. Do you know what that is?"  
  
"That pretty damn rare, that what that is," Del muttered, refusing to dwell on the memory of how he found out how low the odds were for an individual being so profoundly un-gifted.  
  
"He has zero telepathic abilities and rates zero at all of the psi-potentials we can test for. He cannot project or read thought and has no shielding," Braily went ahead and informed him. "You have been looking at him only through your abilities, Del. I think you've badly misjudged him."  
  
Del frowned at this unwelcome observation. "How he seem to you?"  
  
"Pavel is a very bright young man with particular aptitude for science and mathematics. As conventional wisdom predicts for a psi null, he is not terribly intuitive. However, I have found him to be very proficient at both inductive and deductive reasoning. He does not make the sort of leaps of logic we associate with brilliance, but is very diligent in collecting the data that will enable him to make solid conclusions. He can be overly proud of his grasp of the obvious – which is not at all obvious to him. Pavel is scrupulously honest, the sort of person who cannot hide his true feelings – even when he may wish to."  
  
"Hmph," was all Del could say to the description of someone who was not his snotty Russian roommate.  
  
"Give him another chance," Braily encouraged. "You have completely misinterpreted the lack of cues from his psyche. Remember, Del, a big part of learning to control your gifts is learning how and when _not_ to use them."  
  
"He as rare a specimen as I am." Del said, catching a fleeting impression from the doctor's mind.  
  
"One could say that, " Braily said as if he didn't recognize his own thought.  
  
"And so now you done put both your prize rats in one cage?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"When I was a boy, my cousin and me sometime used to dig up a couple ant hills then put some of each in a jar and watch 'em fight."  
  
"And by that you mean…?"  
  
"By that I mean that I the black ant and lil' Pavel the red ant," Del said, refusing to further break down his metaphor.  
  
"And that we are putting the two of you together purposefully for our own amusement despite the fact we realize how different you are?" Braily said, retreating to the safety of the royal scientific "we."  
  
Del crossed his arms. "Yeah."  
  
"Oh, no, not at all. We genuinely believe that Pavel will make an ideal roommate for you. As you have already experienced, his thoughts and emotions will not intrude on your awareness and will therefore allow you to have a degree of privacy and calm in your quarters."  
  
"Hmm." The cadet replied dubiously.  
  
"So," Braily couldn't resist adding just a moment later, his eyes shining as brightly as any boy who ever put an insect under a magnifying glass on a sunny day. "Do the two of you really fight?"

  


* * *

  
Del was trying to concentrate on memorizing the nine essential properties and characteristics of tachyon field stabilizers, but his mind kept wandering back to the weirdly quiet brain across the small cabin from him. It didn't seem possible that the stuck-up little Slavic kewpie doll could be anything as exotic as a null. A puffed up dumbfuck, yes, definitely. A psi null, no.   
  
Del forced his eyes back onto the page. After a paragraph, they wandered back to where the little snot-nosed Russian was diligently working through his astrophysics homework. Del hated to let go of his initial impression that his roommate was just sort of stupid. Lord knows, he acted sort of stupid – even despite the fact he was burning through some impressively complicated math at that moment.  
  
The no emotions thing was a puzzle too. Braily was not above misleading a person, but the question he had asked about the little blank-brained creep kept eating away at Del. Why would the Russian pretend to have emotions if he wasn't really feeling anything?   
  
After a moment, the Cajun realized that his roommate had fastened his round gerbil eyes on him. Del wondered why before realizing that he'd been staring at the kid for several minutes.  
  
"How you doin'?" he asked to be sociable.  
  
The Russian blinked at him, looking for all the world like an annoyed pug dog. "What?  
  
"How are you?" he over-enunciated. "How you feeling?"  
  
"It is no concern of yours," the Russian replied snottily.  
  
"Can't I be fuckin' polite, you motherfuckin' stuck-up prick?"  
  
Chekov shook his head disapprovingly going back to his math. "You are so rude."  
  
"Fuck off," Del retorted returning to his tachyon fields.  
  
"So rude," the Russian repeated, thinking tiny little thoughts that were entirely consistent with what an angry person would think -- although no hint of his annoyance reached Del. Someone that aggravated usually splattered him with emotion. His roommate's feelings didn't seem to generate even as much as a dewdrop of sentiment.  
  
"You mad now?" the Cajun asked, puzzled.  
  
Chekov frowned, looking like a pissed off slavic pixie. "Since you cannot be civil, I have no wish to speak with you."  
  
From his thoughts, Del could read that he was not the Russian's first roommate. Since the beginning of the term, Chekov had seen three other cadets fail, transfer, or be dropped for earning too many demerits. The Russian seemed to think the experience had given him a good picture of the sort of person who was most likely to succeed at the Academy. By his calculations, he was looking forward to meeting his next cabin-mate by the beginning of next week.  
  
Del, who had already gone through eight roommates in short order, was not impressed. "Stuck-up moron," he snarled.  
  
Although the Russian pretended not to hear, another set of miniature thoughts that should have been accompanied by a projection of anger bubbled up in his brain.  
  
Speculating that the distance between them might make a difference, Del got up under the pretext of getting a stylus off his desk.   
  
"Cocksucker," he muttered experimentally when he was within arm's length of the Russian.  
  
Chekov snorted like an enraged bull. "What did you call me?" he said from between his teeth, the very picture of fury.  
  
"Hmmm," Del said to himself. "Nothing..."  
  
"What?" the Russian repeated, his round teddy bear eyes blazing.  
  
"I just not feel it," the Cajun said, shaking his head. Deciding to ratchet what Braily would call the "affective display" up another notch, he searched the Russian's brain for something appropriate. " _Zasranetc_."  
  
The cadet came up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box. "What?!!"  
  
"Still nothing," Del concluded, but acknowledged that his pronunciation was probably way off.  
  
Looking at it from an engineering point of view, emotions were like mental oscillations. Although not consciously perceptible to average folks, they were clearly readable to properly equipped and tuned receivers like himself. Chekov seemed to be doing all the right things to generate mental oscillations of affective response, however something was keeping the waves from reaching Del.  
  
The engineer took another step forward. "How many Klingons," he began slowly and clearly so as not to invalidate his experiment, "did your mother have to blow to get you admitted into this place?"  
  
This seemed to do the trick. Color rose in the Russian pale cheeks. His breathing quickened. His mouth was set in a hard, cold line.   
  
Concentrating hard, Del could feel the red hot waves of feeling rise up, emanating out towards him… only to inexplicably fall back in on themselves like matter collapsing into a black hole. It was fascinating. So fascinating, in fact, that he paid no attention to the way the little Russian balled up his skinny fists and aimed a powerful blow at Del's midsection.  
  
"Oof!" Surprise as much as impact staggered him backwards.  
  
The Russian stood over where he'd toppled to the floor. "Did you feel that?" he asked unsmilingly.  
  
"Fuck," Del swore, rubbing his stomach. "Why couldn't you have just turned out to be a robot?"

* * *

  
  
"Ah, Pavel." The head of the Psi Department at Star Fleet's Academy called out to the young man exiting Lab 3.  
  
"Dr. Braily, sir." The cadet came to attention, but smiled as he did so.  
  
Braily headed up the corridor to join him. "Thank you for participating in Dr. Chenowith's research project."  
  
"It was no problem, sir."  
  
Braily found the contrast between these two young men endlessly fascinating. In the general population falling into the normal distribution curve of psi abilities, those having the low ratings for empathic potential usually corresponded with higher incidences of anti-social tendencies. High scores for empathy correlated to higher ratings for compassion and attribution of positive motivations for others. Following that trend would lead one to predict that a psi null would be a virtual sociopath and a true empathic would be approach saintliness in their concern for others.  
  
In the current case, the reverse was true. The null, Chekov, was gregarious and well-liked by his peers – despite the fact they typically rated him as being or appearing to be very naïve. He had a highly developed sense of justice and displayed deep concern that others were treated fairly and considerately.  
  
The telepath, DelMonde, despite having one of the highest ratings for empathic sensitivity Braily had ever recorded, was hyper-sensitive, hyper-critical, and adamantly anti-social. Although he also possessed a strong sense of justice, the telepath was suspicious, withdrawn, and easily angered.  
  
Braily thought it did not speak well of the human race that the individual who had the most insight into people's true feelings imputed the most base motivations to their actions.  
  
"You have a new roommate, Pavel?"  
  
The cadet sighed deeply. "Yes, sir."  
  
"You don't sound pleased."  
  
"Not very, sir," the Russian replied honestly.  
  
"Is there some problem?" Braily asked, intrigued.   
  
Because the null's skepticism about psychic phenomenon enhanced his desirability as a control subject in research projects in that area, the staff had agreed that they would not speak to him directly about his new roommate's giftedness unless confronted with unavoidable questions. Despite his agreement with that decision, Braily wished he could be more direct when questioning the cadet about his impressions. How would a null perceive a powerful tel-empath? Would he be able to distinguish any differences between a gifted person and his non-gifted acquaintances?  
  
"He is…" The cadet paused to consider. "… Very rude."  
  
That was admittedly one way Noel DelMonde was distinguishable from the general population.   
  
"Oh?" Braily said, hoping for more.  
  
The cadet nodded adamantly. "Yes, sir."  
  
"What form does this "rudeness" take?"  
  
The Russian frowned disapprovingly. "He uses a great deal of impolite language."  
  
That was also inarguable.  
  
"And this offends you?" Braily probed.  
  
"He calls me some very insulting names."  
  
"Does he?"  
  
The cadet's cheeks reddened with remembered anger. "Yesterday he spoke to me in the rudest possible manner."  
  
Braily tilted his head to one side. "Why do you think he did that?"  
  
"He said he wanted to see if I had real emotions or if I was a robot," Chekov reported in aggrieved outrage.  
  
The doctor tried not to smile. "Do you think he is now convinced that you have real emotions?"  
  
"Yes, sir." The cadet smiled grimly. "If not, I will be quite willing to convince him again."  
  
Braily tapped his lip with thoughtfully. "Is impolite speech the only thing he does that seems rude to you?"  
  
The null considered for a moment. "He stares a great deal."  
  
"At you?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And why do you think he does that?"  
  
"Because he is very rude," the cadet concluded. "He takes things too, without asking me."  
  
"Takes things?" Braily frowned. "What sort of things?"  
  
"The bottom bunk," the Russian listed readily. "Styluses. The shelf nearest to the sink..."  
  
"And these things are important to you?" the doctor asked, letting a little gentle chiding enter his tone.  
  
"No," the null admitted. "But it would be polite to ask. It was my cabin first."  
  
"And that is important to you?"  
  
"No," he conceded with a guilty sigh. "But it would be more considerate to ask."  
  
The doctor crossed his arms in what he knew the null would identify as a disapproving paternal gesture. "And have you expressed this feeling to him?"  
  
"No," the cadet confessed.  
  
Braily gave the young man an encouraging pat on the arm. "Clear communication makes for more harmonious relationships."  
  
"Yes, sir," the Russian agreed dutifully.  
  
Braily was in the midst of congratulating himself for dispensing this timely pearl of wisdom when he remembered who he was talking about. "On the other hand…"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Your new roommate may feel that you are being too critical – judging his actions too harshly."  
  
"Possibly," Chekov conceded, then muttered half to himself, "He never seems to feel that he does anything wrong."  
  
"It may be best to simply be patient with him," Braily advised. "Evaluate whether or not the subject at dispute is truly important to you before engaging in confrontation. Don't be carried away by your emotions."  
  
"So I should be more unemotional?" the Russian repeated dubiously.  
  
"Yes."  
  
The null lifted an eyebrow. "Like a robot?"  
  
"Yes." Braily nodded, thinking of the telepath's enthusiasm for machinery. He patted the cadet on his shoulder again before turning to leave. "Try that."  
  
Chekov sighed deeply as he continued up the corridor. "This is going to be a wonderful relationship…"

  


* * *

  
Noel DelMonde guessed that this Vulcan meditation shit might be useful if one had an ample supply of time and patience. Just at the moment, he was running low on both.

  
"Cadet," Dr. Salme corrected. "Your hands must be in this position."

  
Del had been trying to copy the exact interlacing of each finger and precise placement of each knuckle for over ten minutes now. "Why?" he challenged at last.

  
"It helps focus the mind," the Vulcan replied serenely, just as he had several times before.

  
"Bullshit," Del muttered quietly.

  
They were sitting on the floor of Salme's darkened therapy room on mats. A glowing orb-thing sat between them –All of which would have seemed more natural if they were about to smoke a bowl of good Rigellian instead of preparing to think about different frequencies of thought waves for an hour… Although a good bowl of Rigellian would have surely helped with that.

  
Dr. Salme lifted an eyebrow.

  
The thing Del kept forgetting about Vulcans was that they had freakishly good hearing.

  
"It help focus the fingers," he mumbled as a non-apology. "But that about all."

  
"The posture is designed to quiet the body and provide a focal point for concentration," Salme explained once again.

  
The skull-fuckers in the Psi lab had promised Del that these sessions would help him learn to block out other people's thoughts and exert far greater control over what they termed "his gifts" – which would be a very good thing if it were really possible. So far today, however, he hadn't even been able to exert sufficient control over his fingers.

  
"It a damn ritual," he grumbled. "That all."

  
This earned him another eyebrow shot.

  
"I growed up Catholic," he replied defensively. "I know ritual when I see it, son."

  
Salme gave him one of his cold, fish-eyed looks. "It is inappropriate and inaccurate for you to address me in such a manner."

  
Del supposed that he shouldn't be so hard on old Salmon-face. He wasn't a bad guy. On the other hand, he wasn't a good guy either. Like a lot of the Vulcans Del had met here, Salme was just a guy. A Vulcan guy. A Vulcan guy who was just doing his job…or at least trying to.

  
Del sighed and got back into his best approximation of the appropriate meditative positioning. "Sorry."

  
"Is the gesture offensive to you?" the Vulcan asked.

  
"No." Del shrugged. "Just saying. That all."

  
Salme looked down his long Vulcan nose. "If we could proceed?"

  
What Vulcans said about themselves in all their travel brochures wasn't exactly true. They did have emotions. They just held a tight rein on them. Sometimes they used other emotions to squash their emotions down to a nub. It annoyed Del. Sometimes it made him want to grab them by their long-assed ears and yell, "Give it up! Be pissed! Be scared! Be horny! Just quit lying to yourselves!!"

  
"You know what do bother me?" he finally burst out.

  
"No," Salme said, his growing impatience muted but as clear and readable as any Human's.

  
"You act like I a leper or something," Del complained.

  
"Leper?" the Vulcan repeated. "One who suffers from a chronic disease caused by the bacterium Mycobacterium leprae?”

  
Del shook his head in exasperation. "It a metaphor."

  
Salme gave a small sigh. "Of course."

  
"You dread being around me," Del accused, finally naming the emotion overlay he'd been sensing for some time now.

  
Surprise rose up and was pushed back down in the Vulcan. "Dread is an emotional response."

  
" _C'est vrai_ ," the Cajun confirmed defiantly.

  
"Vulcans do not engage in emotional displays."

  
Del lifted an amused eyebrow. "Yeah, sure."

  
"Your tone suggests disbelief," the Vulcan replied stiffly.

  
"What I suggest is that you not like being near me."

  
Salme drew in a deep breath. "Cadet, you are projecting an emotional coloring to my actions which does not exist."

  
"Really?" Del challenged. "Right now, I holding my hands wrong again, _non_? If I was a Vulcan, you reach over and put my fingers right. You not want to touch me."

  
The Vulcan was silent for a moment. "Verbal instructions should be sufficient," he said, instead of admitting to anything.

  
"I read that Vulcans are touch telepaths," Del informed him, his senses taking in the brutal suppression of a grassroots uprising of emotion taking place in the mind his teacher. "Maybe it my brain not my fingers that you afraid to touch."

  
"Your thoughts are disordered and your emotions are chaotic," Salme conceded slowly and carefully. "Until you learn control and discipline, mental contact would be …disturbing."

  
"Disturbing, huh?" Del couldn't help scoffing, despite the hurt this comment caused. "That sound pretty emotional to me."

  
"Human language has an inherent overlay of emotionality," the Vulcan asserted, straightening back into position. "If we could continue?"

  
Del snorted as he followed suit. "It not contagious," he muttered.

  
The Vulcan lowered an eyebrow. "To what do you refer?"

  
"My disturbed mental state," the Cajun replied with bitter mocking. "You not gonna catch it, you know."

  
"No," Salme replied, his concealed emotions giving lie to his outward calm. "That I do not know.”

* * *

  
  
Del was having a dream about a blue, blue Christmas. It was set in a storybook European village with a big snow-covered Santa Claus castle in the background. All the villagers were wearing blue and white outfits and calling out, "Noel! Noel!" to each other.  
  
There was a line of teddy bears dressed up in toy soldier uniforms marching down the street. One of them turned to him and shouted, "Noel! Noel!"  
  
Suddenly someone put something under his nose that made his nostrils burn and his eyes sting.  
  
"Noel! Noel!" His roommate was shaking him by the shoulder. "Noel, you must wake up!"  
  
"What the hell?" he asked, pushing him away and blinking the tears out his eyes.  
  
"You are going to be late for class," Chekov warned, putting the stopper back on a small bottle. "You took too many sleeping pills."  
  
"Too many what?" Del asked, disoriented.  
  
"Your blue sleeping pills." The Russian handed him his uniform and boots. "You took too many. Your alarm kept going off, but you did not wake up. I called sickbay. They said to call back if this didn't revive you."  
  
Del blinked uncomprehendingly first at the bottle of smelling salts, then at his roommate, then at the boots in his hands, then finally at the wall chronometer. "Shit! I gonna be late…"  
  
"Hurry!" Chekov urged, taking the boots from him, so he could concentrate on getting into his tunic and pants. "If you run, you may be able to still make it."  
  
"Grounded," Del realized, as he pulled on the shirt. "I am as grounded as dirt."  
  
Damn Salme and whatever had crawled up his cold Vulcan ass. Del had taken an extra hit of sapphire to get that session out of his mind. Apparently the extra hit had been more than he'd needed.  
  
"Hurry!" The Russian handed him his right boot and then started to push his foot into his left.  
  
Del's hands were practiced at moving with minimal initial supervision from his brain. Although this was not a desirable situation, since he had balanced intermix formulae while in worse condition, getting through class grounded seemed do-able.  
  
He blinked at his roommate. "This is damned decent of you," he had to admit, as the little Russian helped him to his feet.  
  
"What?" Chekov asked, turning to grab a stat board off his desk.  
  
"You coulda let me sleep," Del pointed out, as the Russian folded his hand around the board. "I be kicked out and out your hair."  
  
"I am a decent person," Chekov informed him firmly as he pushed him towards the door.  
  
"Maybe," Del conceded, taking off at a run. He called over his shoulder. "I still like you better if you was a robot!"

  


* * *

  
Del was laying on his bunk reading his textbook on Interplanetary Law when Chekov got back from class that afternoon.  
  
The little Russian didn't say anything other than to give the grunt both of them recognized as mutually acceptable alternative to saying, "Hello." Del thought, however, that he did detect a hint of a smug smile playing about Chekov's lips.  
  
The Cajun replied with the snort both of them recognized as a mutually acceptable alternative to saying, "Fuck you." He narrowed his eyes as he watched his roommate go through his normal routine of putting away things he'd taken to class and getting out things he needed for studying. Although Chekov didn't have the courtesy to project his emotions like a normal person, Del had the distinct impression the little chipmunk was pleased with himself for having saved the Cajun from near-to-certain expulsion this morning. He could not fathom why.  
  
"We not gonna hafta be friends now, are we?" he asked forbiddingly.  
  
Chekov looked up from his astrophysics text and considered for a moment. "That does seem a lot to expect."  
  
Del scowled and speculated that the little dumbfuck could just be proud of having made the quota of good deeds for the week recommended in his Super Junior Space Man manual.  
  
"But," Chekov began, with a sweet, you-owe-me-and-I-know-it smile. "We could be civil to each other..."  
  
Del frowned. "You gonna want them groundrules, _non_?"  
  
The Russian gave a one handed shrug to indicate he was open to negotiation. "Perhaps a gentleman's agreement?"  
  
The Cajun's frown deepened. He had to revise his previous conclusion. Chekov had not given him a I-know-I've-got-you-where-I-want-you smile. The little dumbfuck never knew things like that. He had just been smiling because he assumed that under everything Del really wanted to be a Super Junior Space Man as much as he did and now had an opportunity to demonstrate this desire.  
  
"I can't promise I never cuss at you again," the Cajun replied obstinately.  
  
"But no more experimenting to see if I am a robot," the Russian requested firmly.  
  
Del snorted. "Next time I just take a laser wrench to your head."  
  
"That might prove less painful," Chekov agreed nicely.  
  
"I wouldn't count on it," Del promised grimly. "And as far as my taking your stuff goes…"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You don't own this room. You not the king of the cabin," Del informed him. Although in his mind, he could very easily picture the Russian in a little crown inscribed with Star Fleet insignia, seated at a throne/desk, flanked by two bare-breasted blonde Valkyries in charge of cooling his brow and handing him slide-rules.  
  
Chekov crossed his arms. "I do own _some_ things in this room."  
  
"Fuck." Del could immediately tell this assertion was connected to a specific complaint. "What now?"  
  
"My vodka."  
  
To this, the Cajun had no option other than to innocently reply, "Oh, that was yours?  
  
"It was in the compartment under my bed."  
  
"Which puts it in a compartment _above_ my bed." Del pointed out. "If you not want me to drink it, you should have hid it somewhere."  
  
"It was in a compartment under my bed," the Russian repeated.  
  
"That the first place I look," Del replied unapologetically. " _Mais_ , this were just a case of reckless endangerment."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Del shook his head and took back up his Interplanetary Law textbook, sure that his assertion would be backed up there. "You leave a bottle of liquor alone in a room with a Cajun – What you think gonna happen?"

  


* * *

  
  
Noel DelMonde was disgusted by how accustomed he was becoming to living with Pavel Chekov. By this point, his relationships with his previous roommates usually deteriorated from nausea-inducing unpleasantness to all-out war. With the Russian, though, Del had actually caught himself contemplating things he liked about his current living arrangements.  
  
The number one thing was that if you had a brain-crushingly bad day, you could come in and say, "Shut the fuck up and leave me alone." Incredibly, he would shut the fuck up and leave you alone. Like a good hound dog, he might come over and give you a discreet sniff to reassure himself that you hadn't curled up to die, but other than that, he went about his business.  
  
Living with the Russian was very like living with a dog… a dog who wanted to become an admiral and who had a certain talent for statistical mechanics. Henceforth Del resolved to teach all his dogs astrophysics. It might give them delusions of grandeur, but it did seem to have great potential to keep them occupied.  
  
Del was therefore very surprised when Chekov gave what in a human would be a "What's the use?" sigh and switched off his computer. The Cajun was stunned when his roommate followed this uncharacteristic behavior up by taking a big bottle of clear liquid out of his desk and saying, "Noel, would you care for a drink?"  
  
"Does the pope wear a funny hat?" Del replied automatically, despite the fact his jaw had just hit the floor.  
  
The Russian blinked at him blankly.  
  
"The answer is yes, you heathen," the Cajun said, stepping over to his roommate's desk to accept the glass. "And don't call me Noel… And why the hell you drinking?"  
  
The Russian pulled back the glass. "That could be seen as a prying question."  
  
Del raised his eyebrows. The only clear "gentleman's agreement" they'd been able to work out thus far was a prohibition against prying questions. Del had suggested the rule -- never thinking that he might actually want to ask one.  
  
"Fair enough," he conceded, pulling a chair put to his roommate's desk. "I withdraw my query."  
  
Chekov poured a glass of clear liquid for both of them.   
  
"Must be a special occasion, though," Del persisted casually. "For you to share your liquor with me."  
  
"I am going to be drinking…" The Russian paused to toss back the entire glass. "Quite a bit. It would be rude not to ask if you wanted to join me."  
  
"True dat," Del agreed, sipping his drink like a normal person. The reason the Cajun rarely wanted to ask questions was because he rarely _needed_ to ask questions. He could lift the lid on the teeny tiny toybox that was his roommate's brain and take a peek around with less effort than it took for him to breathe. What he glimpsed there almost made him drop his drink. "You gonna turn yourself in and resign from the Academy?"  
  
Chekov frowned at him. "Who told you that?"  
  
"The tooth fairy," Del answered, exasperated.  
  
"I am being serious." The Russian warned as he poured himself another drink.  
  
"So then you gonna believe me this time when I tell you that I know what you thinking 'cause I a telepath?"  
  
Chekov snorted and downed another shot. "No."  
  
"Of course not." Del rolled his eyes, before he focused in on his roommate's abnormally quiet psyche. "Well, lemme see what the Easter Bunny can tell me about how you got into this mess…"  
  
"Noel…" The Russian began defeatedly, as he poured himself another small glass of vodka.  
  
"Don't call me Noel," Del warned, topping off his glass since his roommate seemed to be intent on polishing off the whole bottle in a few swigs. "So… a midshipman been picking on you… and not just you…"  
  
"This is the sort of trick fortunetellers use," Chekov accused. "It is all a matter of asking leading questions and watching body language."  
  
"Yeah," DelMonde agreed facetiously. "And the way you holding your pinkie tell me that this clever bastard got him a system figured out. If there some problem in his homework he can't work, he ambush a bunch of plebes outside the Nav Lab and make them calculate it for him under the pretext of testing them on the fundamentals."  
  
"I suppose someone could have told you," the Russian grumbled into his vodka.  
  
"Yeah. Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and the Easter Bunny all drop by to discuss your progress with me on a regular basis," the Cajun confirmed, then added. "That who really drinking up your liquor, you know."  
  
"Oh, yes, of course," Chekov agreed, downing another shot like it was water.  
  
"And from what they told me," Del said, easily perusing the narrative being replayed inside his roommate's orderly little brain. "Things was going fine until this clever dick decides to pick on you. Eager beaver that you are, you done already working problems out of the advanced level textbook so you recognize what he doing, work the problem for him then work the next one on that page and ask if he couldn't figure that one out either…." The Cajun paused and shook his head. "Damn, son, you got balls. I gotta admit that much. You ain't got shit for brains, but you do have a big ol' set of Bolshevik balls on you."  
  
Chekov apparently saw no point in disagreeing with either of these assertions.  
  
"So," Del continued. "Along come another midshipman who jerk you aside and tell you that you better shut up about this whole thing 'cause to him it looks like you giving out answers to the advanced class homework and if you make a fuss he gonna turn you in for cheating."  
  
Chekov sighed. "I suppose that everyone must be talking about it."  
  
"You overestimate people's interest in your personal life," Del informed him coolly, despite the fact that he was appalled at how a couple of scumbags could get a straight-arrow kid like his roommate into so much trouble in a matter of minutes. "So now you decided you gonna go turn yourself and make a full report on that midshipman even though you think it gonna get you kicked out too."  
  
"You are simply drawing conclusions now," the Russian replied, refilling his glass glumly.  
  
"Yeah and my main conclusion is that you too much of a dumbfuck to realize that Midshipman #2 was not an innocent bystander outraged by your actions."  
  
"Who was he then?"  
  
"One of Midshipman #1's friends who saw a way to save his sleazebag ass."  
  
Chekov blinked at this new interpretation of the scene. "You think so?"  
  
"The Easter Bunny is 90% sure that the case," Del confirmed, taking a long sip of his vodka.  
  
The little Russian blew out a long breath and put his glass down as he puzzled through this fresh data. He turned his head to one side; his stubborn chin stuck up and out, his childish mouth slightly pursed and curved downwards. Tiny frown lines made his usually kind and guileless eyes look stern. His brow was lowered.  
  
In other words, he had _The Look_.  
  
There was only one other human who Del had ever known who could pull off _The Look_ … and this was a Double Triple Secret reason why DelMonde was less and less tempted to strangle the Russian with each passing day.  
  
"Your mama has her princess face on, boy," Del's daddy used to say. "Trying to figure out why the rest of the world can't manage to be as good as she is."  
  
Del loved his mother's princess face – despite the fact it usually meant she was about to come down on someone's erring ass like the wrath of God… and despite the fact that sometimes that ass was his own.  
  
Pavel Chekov got _The Look_ because his null brain did not give him sufficient clues to help him figure out why others did not hold themselves to the same high standards he did. Louisa DelMonde had more than ample information as to why people fell short of her similarly strict code of personal ethics. She got _The Look_ when she just could not accept those reasons as being sufficient.  
  
In a dusty Art History text Del had once read, _The Look_ as it appeared on some of Michelangelo's angels was described as "the righteous arrogance of the unthinkingly virtuous." It was a rare and beautiful thing to see in person…particularly when it was not directed at you.  
  
"No wonder your parents never let you out of the house," Del chided, outwardly not giving in to this sentimentality. "You so green they probably scared they lose you in the grass."  
  
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Chekov asked.  
  
"You so gullible if somebody ask you for the time, you run out and try to give them all the chronometers you can lay hands on."  
  
"Noel..."  
  
"And don't call me Noel," the Cajun warned, refilling both glasses. "Now if you turn yourself in, what you think happen?"  
  
"There will be a formal investigation by the…"  
  
"Don't quote the damn manual to me," Del interrupted firmly. "What I mean is, what you hope to achieve by turning yourself in? Why you doing this for?"  
  
Chekov took in a deep breath. "That midshipman is guilty of breaking the honor code…"  
  
"And are you guilty too?"  
  
"Well, technically…"  
  
Now this was the sticky point. The Academy prided itself so much on being such a hard-assed organization that if Chekov turned himself in, he'd probably get kicked out – even though doing so was the sort of brave and honorable decision they were trying to train the cadets to make. The Russian had knowingly given the answers to a homework assignment to another student -- even if it was only to expose that student's more serious violation of the honor code.  
  
"Technically, my ass," Del retorted, cutting through this Gordian knot of ethical obligations. "Were you cheating?"  
  
"No," Chekov replied as stoutly as his roommate knew he would.  
  
"Was Midshipman Scumbag cheating?"  
  
"Yes," the Russian answered with equal vigor.  
  
"Then who needs to be turned in, you or him?"  
  
"Him," Chekov admitted. "But I am obliged to tell the complete story…"  
  
"But if this fella was to get caught without you saying nothing," Del proposed. "Would justice be served?"  
  
"I suppose so, but…"  
  
The Cajun crossed his arms. "So all that need to happen is for him to try to pull this one more time and get caught."  
  
Chekov drank his next glass of vodka no faster than the average person might drink a very small glass of water. "I doubt that he would do that," the Russian concluded, setting his glass down.  
  
"You think he scared you gonna turn him in?"  
  
"He should be," Chekov replied grimly.  
  
"He might lay low for a few days at that." Del paused and sipped thoughtfully on his vodka. "But you not going to wait a few days to tell on him, are you?"  
  
"I have already waited longer than I should have."  
  
Del began to smile as a plan began to coalesce in his brain. "If Midshipman Fuckhead get convinced there going to be a pop quiz, though…."  
  
Chekov frowned. "Who would convince him of that?"  
  
"Oh, Santa Claus might decide to whisper something in his ear." The Cajun smiled to himself. "Big thing is, we need a teacher to witness… but someone our Mr. Cheater wouldn't immediately pick out of the crowd… Maybe someone from Engineering…"  
  
"Someone from Engineering wouldn't recognize that the problems were out of the advanced text," Chekov pointed out.  
  
"Unless someone else is standing beside them saying, "You know, I have a lifeless bookworm fuck for a roommate and that sounds like some of the questions from the junior level textbook he busting his lil' brains on for fun."  
  
The Russian looked into Del's eyes questioningly. "You would do that?"  
  
The Cajun leaned back in his chair and shrugged. " _Someone_ might."  
  
"Why?" he asked – not meaning to be insulting, but simply and completely unable to fathom his roommate's motivations.  
  
"Maybe it because I a decent person," Del suggested pointedly. "Or because I sick of you prancing around here like Prince Galahadovich thinking that I owe you one because you woke me up the other day… Or it could be because I an unprincipled individual who enjoy causing disorder --- so it would be a laugh."  
  
Although he seemed to be impressed by the quantity if not the quality of these potential subtexts, Chekov still shook his head. "It would not work," he decided, downing another glass of vodka. "Too many unpredictable variables."  
  
Del grinned. "Not for a good fortune-teller like me."  
  
The Russian chewed on his lip and considered. "It would not work."  
  
"Wanna bet?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"50 credits," Del specified. "Gimme 24 hours. And 50 credits says I can fuck this bastard up royally."  
  
The Russian frowned. "I do not know."  
  
"Scared to put your money where your big Slavic mouth is, huh?" Del goaded.  
  
"It is not that…"  
  
"24 hours," the Cajun persisted. "If it don't work, you still got plenty o' time to fall on your saber, right?  
  
"I suppose," Chekov said slowly in a "this really means no" voice.  
  
Del picked up the vodka. "50 credits and the rest of this bottle of firewater say I can do it."  
  
After a moment, the Russian sighed, seeing that his roommate was not going to let the proposition go. "If you insist."  
  
"I do." Del put the stopper back on the bottle. "Now get back to your homework." He even confiscated the Russian's glass. "And stop drinking my liquor."

  


* * *

  
When Pavel Chekov arrived back in his cabin late that afternoon, Del had a set up a convivial little tea party on his desk. The Cajun had ordered a chocolate bunny and a tiny Santa hat for the decorative nutcracker dressed as a Cossack Chekov kept on a shelf with his books. Del hadn't been able to think of anything to represent the tooth fairy, so he'd just used the toy bear the Russian kept on his bed. Each guest had a small glass of vodka.  
  
The Russian grinned from ear to ear when he saw the display. "50 credits, I believe you said?" he inquired, graciously conceding defeat.  
  
Del was more than a bit surprised by his roommate's cheerfulness. After all, he had set this scene up to purposefully piss the Russian off. Something had to be done to prevent Chekov from thinking crazy things like assuming the two of them were friends just because Del had spent the better part of the day saving him from being expelled. The Cajun had blatantly touched several of his roommate's precious belongings in creating this diorama set up to mock the Russian's idiotic disbelief in telepathy.  
  
"We could make it 75 for the trouble," Del replied gruffly. After all, framing the cheating midshipman had been more bother than the Cajun had anticipated. The first run had been a dismal disappointment.  
  
Instead of arguing, rolling his eyes, or sighing, Chekov shook his head in jovial wonder as he took the requested amount out of a compartment under his desk. "You certainly earned it."  
  
"That I did," Del said, catching the credit chips his roommates tossed to him. He waited for the inevitable stomping of feet, scolding, or disparaging remark-making to begin in vain. Instead Chekov went through his normal routine of putting away his books with a little smile on his face, jolly and content as a fat uncle who'd just put away half a Thanksgiving turkey.  
  
Del supposed it could be pure relief. After all, the poor dumbfuck's life up to this point had been narrowly focused on getting into the Academy. If he'd been kicked out for cheating… Del wasn't sure what Russians did to off themselves in for behaving dishonorably. Maybe bash themselves in the head with a samovar or something? In Russian literature, they seemed to just mope to death…  
  
"I heard rumors about unscheduled tests all day," Chekov said, chuckling a little.  
  
That part had proved too easy. Not only the dishonest upperclassman but everyone in his circle of friends was at a near fever-pitch of anxiety about their grades. Del's gentle push to their ringleader's brain had sent them all into a veritable feeding frenzy of paranoia. Finding an upperclassman doing something less than completely ethical to ensure his or her class standing would have been like shooting fish in a barrel that day…. Which was a good thing -- since Del had been forced to try twice.  
  
His initial choice of a witness had proved less than optimal. Lt. Samisvarush was so enraptured by Del's feigned interest in his research project, that he wouldn't have paid attention to a 10-ton weight being dropped on his head.  
  
For his second choice, Del went back to the basics of picking someone who was desperate to get into his pants. Lt. Anderson was content to follow him to part of campus quite off her beaten track on a very flimsy pretext and listen raptly to his distracted excuse for conversation while he pushed Midshipman Cheater to a sufficient level of recklessness. Anderson was more than happy to dive in like a pit bull in hopes of impressing Del when he pointed out the hapless upperclassman's suspicious browbeating of a very studious but defenseless looking plebe.  
  
The Cajun was, in fact, so pleased by Anderson's vigorous defense of the Academy's code of honor that he fully planned to reward her with a very discrete indiscretion – which, since he was currently one of her students, was itself explicitly prohibited by that very same code of honor. The irony of this was not at all lost on Del as he sat drinking the sweet vodka of victory.  
  
"Why you play with dolls?" he asked, making another last ditch effort at being unsociable as Chekov took the toy bear out of his chair.  
  
"Sebastian?" the Russian asked, tossing the toy back up onto his bunk. "He's a pillow."  
  
"Pillows don't generally have names," the Cajun pointed out, pouring himself another shot of his hard-won vodka. "Or gender."  
  
"Sebastian does," Chekov replied unperturbed, taking the bear's place. "He was a good luck present from a friend."  
  
"A girlfriend?" Del speculated.  
  
"Of course," the Russian admitted easily. "Do you have male friends who give good luck pillows?"  
  
The Cajun shrugged as he sipped his vodka. "I got male friends who'd happily volunteer to _be_ good luck pillows."  
  
Chekov raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Oh, now don't give me that look when you gonna have your arms around Sebastian all night," Del scolded.  
  
Again, remarkably, the Russian failed to rise to this bait. Instead he good-humoredly raised a glass to his roommate. "I did not believe it was possible for you to bring that lying, cheating _styervo_ to justice, but… _Spasiba_ , Noel."  
  
"You are very welcome, kind sir," Del replied, trying to match him in gentility as he clinked his shot glass against Chekov's.  
  
"I am afraid everyone is going to be upset with you when they figure out all those rumors you started weren't true," the Russian said, after they'd both downed their shot.  
  
"The words 'pop quiz' did not leave my lips."  
  
"Whatever you said, it must have been vague and ominous," Chekov replied. "It was if everyone were imagining the thing they were least prepared to face. I heard talk of very difficult assignments – assembling a field density generator in zero g, or navigating while blindfolded. Some said there was going to be a new psych screening that at least 75% of the incoming class was guaranteed to fail. One person was convinced that they were going to institute a new height requirement for pilots."  
  
Del inwardly groaned. His gentle push toward paranoia directed at Midshipman Cheater must have been less gentle and less directed than he thought. He hoped his efforts hadn't been strong enough to cause a blip on the mental radar of those bastards in the Psych Department.

"That must've had you shaking in your boots," he said, pouring his roommate another round.  
  
"No, but that individual was working on a plan to make his boots much, much taller," Chekov informed him with a smile.   
  
Del frowned. If the effect of his push had been as widespread as the Russian reported, then with no shielding, his roommate should have been consumed by paranoia. Instead, there he sat, as happy as a bullfrog with a belly full of flies. "You not worry, though, huh?"  
  
"I did spend 20 minutes of my lunch break coming up with salient arguments for classifying Neo-Thomism as a dialectical methodology with my study partner for Comparative Philosophy before I realized that she too was under the influence of your rumor mill."  
  
Del snorted. "Sorry I made you spend an extra minute with that flat-chested, buck-toothed old thing."  
  
Chekov grinned since his study partner was undeniably a very scrumptious piece of girl-flesh. "Again," the Russian said, raising his glass. " _Spasiba balshoye_ , Noel."  
  
" _Nezachto_ , Pavel Andrievich," Del replied genially. Inwardly, though, he was puzzled. As an experiment, he looked directly into his roommate's thoughts and gave them a little push. Chekov's thoughts were like thousands and thousands of tiny ants, as Del's push came through, they offered no resistance. It was as if each ant instantly became clothed in a marching band uniform displaying the color of Del's emotion.  
  
Since he'd not thought of anything specific to push, Chekov's thoughts began to reflect his own curiosity back to him. The Russian tilted his head to one side and bit his bottom lip. Del belatedly realized that this mirrored his own expression.   
  
As the Cajun had observed before, just at the point where an average human's neural oscillations of emotional energy would have started to project outwards, Chekov's energy started to collapse back in on itself. The effect was more pronounced this time, though. It was as if the bottom of his toy box brain had fallen open to reveal there was a suction hose attached to the bottom. The vacuum was strong enough to pull the marching band uniforms of emotional overlay off Chekov's ant-thoughts. Occasionally it even ate a whole ant.  
  
Del realized with fascinated revulsion that this… null-ness was… eating emotion. Furthermore, it was sucking in a slow and steady stream of the very same sort of energy from him.  
  
"Why are you staring at me, Noel?" Chekov asked as the Cajun hastily drew his thoughts back in.  
  
The false bottom of the Russian's toy box brain closed and the suction effect faded quickly enough to make Del wonder if he'd imagined the whole thing.  
  
"I trying to figure out how someone can be as stubborn as you and still live," he replied as his roommate's ant farm of thoughts resumed its normal orderliness.  
  
"Stubborn?" Chekov repeated as if amazed the term could be applied to him.  
  
"You see how I able to fuck that guy over single-handed," Del said. "But you still not a bit more convinced that I'm 'pathic."  
  
"All day everyone kept asking, 'Isn't that your roommate DelMonde? Why is he loitering around the Nav labs?' I said you must be interested in some girl." The Russian added. "Next time I won't be so gender specific."  
  
"You and Sebastian mind your own business. I'll mind mine," the Cajun retorted. "So you think I just spread some rumors then hung around waiting for them to work?"  
  
Chekov shrugged. "What else?"  
  
DelMonde sighed to the chocolate bunny before biting into one of its ears. "Next time we try that, _non_?"

  


* * *

  
"I ain't gonna do it!"  
  
Dr. Braily thought that he'd seen the telepath get angry before. However, as his shielding shuddered under the hurricane-force wall of emotion suddenly battering them, he realized what he'd witnessed before was mild pique at the most.  
  
The psychiatrist took in a deep breath and folded his hands on his desktop. "Del, we've already been over this sort of thing before," he replied with Vulcan-trained calm. "At the Academy, an assignment is like a direct order. Refusing it is not an option. It's insubordination."  
  
The telepath crossed his arms and glared hot waves of resentment towards him. "I not fucking gonna do it!"  
  
"And you're doubly not allowed to express a refusal in that way," Braily corrected resolutely. "As I have tried to explain to you…  
  
"I not give a flying fuck what I not fucking allowed to say," DelMonde replied hotly. "I not gonna write no motherfucking thirty-five page research paper on the motherfucking ethical dimensions of telepathic manipulation of fucking non-telepaths."  
  
"If you did what we think you did," the psychiatrist pointed out, "you're getting off very lightly."  
  
The telepath glowered dangerously. "What make you so hell-fired-sure that I the one that fucking done it?"  
  
"A sudden wave of paranoia grips more than two-thirds of the student body, faculty, and staff of the Academy for nearly four hours." Braily paused and gave the telepath a non-smile. "Let me assure you, Cadet, the list of people capable of being responsible for such a thing is very, very, very, very short."  
  
DelMonde's anger abated a little but his frown deepened. "How short?"  
  
"There's only one name on the list."  
  
"Other than me?" the telepath asked stubbornly.  
  
"No." Braily sighed wearily. "It's just you, Del."  
  
"You mean to tell me that none of ya'll coulda done it?" DelMonde's gesture indicated his "ya'll" included the Psych research staff.  
  
Part of Braily's brain noted that the question might indicate that they were not entirely successful in shielding against the telepath. "None of us _would_ have done it."  
  
The cadet snorted contemptuously. "'Cept under orders, _non_?"  
  
"A side benefit of doing the requisite research to write this paper is that after doing so, you will have a more complete idea of what the answer to that question is," Braily replied blandly.  
  
"Motherfucking sons of…" the telepath growled, then paused. "What if it were an accident? I not sayin' I done it – but what if it were an accident?"

  
An alarming number of gifteds either on his staff or under Braily's supervision had been affected by the incident. The doctor was surprised by how many of their paranoid fantasies had centered on DelMonde's ferocious temper and the doubts they all shared about the limits to which they could control or even measure his abilities.  
  
"We are assuming that this incident was somehow unintentional," the doctor replied with a frown of his own. "Otherwise we would have reported you to the dean of students, recommended that you be expelled from the Academy, and alerted the civilian authorities."  
  
"Motherfuckers…" the telepath muttered, but the assault on Braily's shielding eased off as the young man digested this indication of how seriously the uproar he'd caused was being taken in some quarters.  
  
"Thirty-five pages," the doctor said firmly. "At minimum. All sources correctly cited. Delivered to my in-box by seventeen hundred hours two weeks from now."  
  
"Motherfucking…" the cadet muttered as he rose, taking this a dismissal.  
  
"Del." Braily stopped him before he reached the door. "I can believe that this was merely a lapse of control or judgment on your part. However, you're going to have to work a lot harder to convince us that you're willing to do what it takes to be a Star Fleet officer."  
  
"Yeah?" The telepath sneered over his shoulder before exiting. "And who gonna convince me?"

* * *

"You low-down, mother-fucking son of a bitch."  
  
Instead of taking the sensible option of fleeing in terror before his wrath, Noel DelMonde's roommate sighed deeply as he put his books down on his desk in their shared quarters.   
  
"Hello, Pavel," the little chipmunk greeted himself satirically. "Hello, Noel," he answered himself cheerfully. "How are you doing today, Pavel?" the Russian inquired of himself. "Fine, thank you, Noel. And you?" he asked, stepping past DelMonde to take a seat at his desk. "I am afraid that I am very agitated about something and have discovered a way to blame it on you. I hope you do not mind if I rant on obscenely for the rest of the night?" Chekov said, activating his computer. "No. Not at all, Noel. Please, be as rude as you wish."  
  
Del crossed his arms, unamused by this charade. "After I save your no-good Slavic ass, you rat me out to Braily and his brain-bangers."  
  
Chekov gave him one of his "this does not compute" looks.  
  
The Cajun towered over him forbiddingly. "You think you can deny it?"  
  
The Russian shrugged. "I am not certain what "ratting out" is."  
  
"I saw you come out the Psych Dept. grinning this afternoon," Del accused. "If you weren't there to tattle-tell to Braily, then what the fuck were you doing there?"  
  
"I participated in a research project for extra credit," Chekov replied without so much as a second's worth of guilty hesitation.  
  
"You not need no fucking extra credit," Del growled, less because it actually seemed like a hole in the Russian's alibi and more because he wanted there to be a hole in the Russian's alibi. He really hated to believe that he'd accidentally pushed hard enough to affect two thirds of the Academy. That's what came of not getting a decent night's sleep in a couple months, though…  
  
His roommate made a rueful noise as he called up his homework. "I do in my Abnormal Psychology class."  
  
"Don't see why you'd have no problems with that subject," the Cajun sneered.  
  
The impudent little chipmunk gave him a pointed up and down look. "I suppose I am not very observant," he said faux-pleasantly.   
  
"Fuck. You." Del swore adamantly.   
  
Although such an assault would have been sufficiently deadly to curl the toes of any normal mortal, his abnormally insensitive roommate merely shook his empty teddy bear head and rolled his shoe-button eyes.  
  
"And fuck this place." Del angrily flung himself down on his bunk. "I not even know why the fuck I fucking hang around."  
  
He looked up in time to see the Russian give him a "oh, sure" look.  
  
"What?" he growled. "You think you know something?"  
  
"The normal motivation for an Engineering cadet to be in the Star Fleet Academy is the hope of becoming a Star Fleet Engineering officer," his roommate replied, as if reciting from his Super Junior Space Man manual.  
  
"I could be a motherfucking engineer any fucking place I want to be," Del retorted contemptuously.  
  
"You would not be working on starships, though."  
  
Like the broken clock that was still accurate twice a day, this was one of the rare occasions when the Russian – who had absolutely no insight into human emotion – was absolutely right.  
  
Del glared up at the underside of the bunk above him. There was no denying it, though. The lure of working on the biggest, fastest ships in this half of the galaxy already had him hopelessly enthralled. There was not much Braily, his army of skull-fuckers, this snotty blank-brained chipmunk, or any of the other loathsome denizens of this tin-plated lunatic asylum could do to break that spell.  
  
"So you think I told Dr. Braily what you did to help expose that midshipman?" Chekov was saying, looking like he thought there was some possible reason that he might have an excuse to be pissed off. "Is that what the ‘rat you out’ is?"  
  
"Yes, that what ‘the rat you out’ is," Del replied irritably. "Damn. Learn to speak motherfucking Standard, why don't ya?"  
  
"I do not think that would help me understand you," the Russian shot back automatically. He then paused and continued in a very aggrieved tone, "Do you truly think I am so completely lacking in honor?"  
  
"No," Del replied ungraciously. "I think you a grade-grubbing, apple-polishing, brown-nosing, motherfucking moron. That what I think."  
  
" _Moodozvon_ ," his roommate muttered.  
  
Russian, Del had discovered, had a really wonderful variety of new swear words – if you could get the pronunciation down. " _Past' zabej, padla jebanaja_."  
  
From the look on Chekov's face, the Cajun still had quite a ways to go on that front. "Learn to speak Russian, why don't you?" the chipmunk requested smugly in that language.  
  
"Oh, he think he so smart," Del sneered back. "I not know why the fuck I put up with your sorry, snotty ass."  
  
"Don't," the Russian advised.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't inconvenience yourself on my account," Chekov replied, copying a problem down onto his data pad. "Request a different room assignment. Maybe they will listen to you."  
  
"What do you mean maybe they'll listen to me?" Del asked, feeling unaccountably outraged by the notion. "You already requested a transfer?"  
  
"Three times," the Russian replied heartlessly.  
  
"Three times?!! I only been here a week and you done try to get me kicked out the room three fucking times?"  
  
"After the first three refusals, they threatened to give me a demerit if I asked again," Chekov reported.  
  
"Why, you stuck-up, motherfucking, son of a bitching, _hooyesos_ -ing, moronic, self-satisfied, snotty little prick…" Del growled, rising threateningly up onto his elbows.  
  
Once more, instead of being sensibly terrified at having so roused Del's ire, his roommate was just stubbornly and stupidly annoyed.  
  
"To hell with this," the Cajun spat as he stalked to the door.  
  
"Where are you going?" the Russian asked, like it was any of his business.  
  
"I gonna get a fucking drink," Del replied – quite politely under the circumstances, he thought.   
  
"Wait." Chekov quickly saved his work. "I need to get my jacket."  
  
"What you getting your fucking jacket for?" the Cajun asked in puzzled affront as the Russian shut down his computer and made ready to leave as if he'd received an engraved invitation to something.  
  
"I want to go for a drink too," his roommate said matter-of-factly.  
  
"But.. but.." For the first time in his life, Noel DelMonde was outraged beyond the power of expletives to express. "I don't like you."  
  
Chekov blinked him as if this was an unexpectedly stupid response. "I thought you said you were going to drink, not talk."  
  
The best relationships are based on compatibility. The most enduring and enjoyable of all human connections are, in the vast majority of cases, firmly buttressed by an array of shared attitudes, aptitudes, and interests. However, it is also true that sometimes two people can share such a deep and abiding accord on one subject that an entire relationship can be established and maintained simply on that unity of opinion or devotion.  
  
Del had to admit that the little fucker did understand drinking better than any non-Cajun he'd ever met.  
  
"All right," he relented. "Get your damned coat. But we gonna have to make this quick.   
You gotta start work on seventeen and a half pages of an Ethics research paper."  
  
"What?"  
  
"C'mon." Del reached into the locker by the door and handed the jacket to him. " You gonna love the topic, trust me."  
  
"Seventeen and a half pages?" Chekov repeated, struggling into the garment.  
  
"Is that what you heard me say?" Del asked, ushering him out. "I meant twenty-seven pages…. Or maybe it best we just go ahead and round it up to thirty-five..."

  
  
  
_And on the seventh day, Del and Chekov drank.  
And it was good._  
  
* The End *


End file.
